Nucky's Endless Nightmare
by Dan Sickles
Summary: The world he built has crumbled, and his soul has taken flight. What horrific images haunt Nucky Thompson in those final seconds on the Boardwalk? Based on the major events of Season Five, rated T for sex, violence and language.


NUCKY'S ENDLESS NIGHTMARE

 _The world he built has crumbled, and his soul has taken flight. What horrific images haunt Nucky Thompson in those final seconds on the Boardwalk? Terence Winter is the creator of these haunting characters, not I. Please comment nicely!_

"Tommy . . . no! Tommy . . . please!" Reeling backwards, the runty, aging gangster clutched his scrawny chest, feeling the bullet shatter his ribs and burn through his lungs. A second bullet crashed into his guts, and then a third into his stomach. Death was only seconds away. Yet seconds stretched into eternity as the sightless eyes of Nucky Thompson beheld the faces of all the tougher, sexier, infinitely more glamorous men and women he had loved, lusted for, and betrayed. For a man like Nucky Thompson, death was only the beginning of the nightmare.

Sally Wheet was sweaty, bored and horny as she drove along the dark road deep in the Cuban underbrush. The sexy, blonde club owner had gone three days without a man, hoping that the stooped, pop-eyed, elderly gangster from New Jersey would return for her someday. In spite of his runty build and hollow cheeks, he was so strangely fascinating, so desirable . . .

" _Hola, muchacha!_ " The dark-eyed Cuban captain motioned for the shapely blonde to exit her vehicle, holding his pistol pointed straight at her breast while his men aimed rifles lower down. "We have orders to strip search all foreigners who use this road. We are on the lookout for spies and traitors like the evil Senor Thompson from Atlantic City. Do you know him?"

"Yes!" Sally Wheet said proudly, her southern accent sounding hot and sultry in the Cuban night. "Mr. Thompson is my business partner. We haven't made love in recent days because he's getting older, plus he's too weak and skinny to get it up very often. But I know that no man can satisfy a woman like he can!"

"You are mistaken," the Cuban captain sneered. "Cuba has the best lovers in the world. Now let me see what you look like without any clothes!"

Sally tried to resist, but it had been so long since a man who could actually perform sexually had handled her body. "Nucky will make you pay," she panted. But the night was so hot and her body was throbbing, and as the virile Latin hunk fondled her flesh she found herself forgetting Nucky, wanting instead the Cuban captain. And the lieutenant, and the sergeant, and all the Cuban boys who polished their boots back at the barracks . . .

Nucky tried to scream, but the image of Sally's sultry smile as the younger, stronger men took her over and over made the feeble old gangster choke on the blood rapidly filling his throat. It was strange how the images kept shifting, how past, present, and future all mingled in a never-ending kaleidoscope of horror . . .

First Nucky had to watch while Gillian Darmody, in the asylum, had steamy lesbian sex with a shapely blonde matron. Apparently the tough looking matron knew exactly how to please a woman who'd only known old men and scrawny circus freaks since she was thirteen years old. Gillian's sobs of joy and gratitude as she experienced true release for the first time in her life would have made Nucky cry if his eyes weren't full of blood instead of tears.

But suddenly the steaming hot lesbian sex scene was interrupted. Two black men in prison stripes burst into the asylum, armed with huge black pistols with extra-long barrels.

"What she be doing?" Asked the one with the scarred forehead.

"Lesbian sex," rasped his partner, coal-black and fearless Chalky White. His raw, husky voice was so familiar from the days when Nucky threw the black gangster scraps from his table. But now it was different. Chalky seemed to be talking just to him, saying horrible things in that slow, raspy, distinctive black diction of his. "Woman get frantic . . . desperate . . . need a man's touch. A fine white woman needs to know not all men is weak . . . feeble . . . like that pop-eyed, hollow-cheeked Nucky Thompson!"

"I am not feeble, damn it!" Nucky screamed the words, but only in his own delirium-haunted brain. It seemed that all the women in the asylum were cheering now, as Milton and Chalky satisfied Gillian and the matron and then cut everyone loose and kicked open the doors, letting dozens of women run wild in the streets. It was all running together now, images of the madwomen doing it with total strangers mixed with Sally doing it in Cuba and Joe Kennedy doing Margaret Schroeder across her own desk. "Sure, you have a fine big one, Joe," Margaret chirped, in her charming brogue. "The last one I saw up close was less than an inch long."

"No," Nucky moaned. "No, no, no! My dick is not that small!"

Meanwhile up in Harlem, Dr. Valentin Narcisse was delivering an address on race pride to a throng of devoted black followers, all dressed in their Sunday best and looking very dignified.

"Do not imagine the white man is superior," crooned the distinguished black scholar, in his cultivated and musical voice. "Remember that for every criminal genius like Arnold Rothstein, there are a dozen scrawny weaklings with staring pop-eyes and hollow cheeks. Weak white men like Nucky Thompson need mindless brutes to carry out their orders."

As if on cue, Lucky Luciano and Benny Siegel dragged out Sheriff Eli Thompson and Agent Nelson Van Alden, both bound and gagged.

"Thank you, gentlemen," said Dr. Narcisse. "Harlem is pleased to recognize your control of the numbers rackets."

"Yeah, whatever," Lucky Luciano shrugged. "We'll leave the day to day to you, Dr. Libya. Just do a good job on these two."

"Behold the color of the white man's blood!" Dr. Narcisse cried, as his ancient sacrificial knife from Libya cut through the trousers of Sheriff Eli Thompson. The big, tough sheriff sobbed for mercy and shit his pants as the cultivated black man cut his throat. Then Dr. Narcisse waved his severed male organ in the air, like a magician pulling a white rabbit from his top hat.

"Oy, the _schlong_ on that one," Benny Siegel cracked.

"Bigger than his brother's, that's for sure," Luciano agreed. "Too bad Nucky got the brains and not the balls."

"That's a lie, God damn it!" Nucky shrieked, not caring whether the phantoms in his head could hear him or not. "My dick used to be hard all the time! I used to have all the girls I wanted! I didn't care if they were married or single, grown up or little girls! I took whatever I wanted all the God-damned time, like a God-damned king!"

"Yes, a God-damned king," said Dr. Valentin Narcisse. "At last the white man sees himself as he truly is."

Suddenly it was 1897. Without warning, a young Deputy Enoch Thompson found himself struggling to subdue a writhing, squirming Gillian Darmody on the sands under the boardwalk.

"Now I've got you," young Enoch panted. "Now I've got you."

But just as he was about to violate the innocent young girl, the aging gangster felt the life surge out of him. He fell over dead on the boardwalk, eternally damned, taking his huge erection with him yet knowing that he would never get a chance to use it.

Thus departed Nucky Thompson.


End file.
